Today's poem is by Kristin Bock
All night, hemlocks drop their cones on stone steps.
If the cones were slippers, I'd unlock the latch
for the woman who fled from her home in her nightgown.
From under the purple shade of the pines she'd come
to warm her feet in my hands. If her gown were hemmed
in hailstones, I'd fold it over my shoulder to thaw,
and with my lips, drop a seed under her tongue. We'd fall
asleep listening as the pines mourn the waxwings
those birds in black masks who huddle on high limbs
passing berries from one mouth to another.
Copyright © 2009 Kristin Bock All rights reserved
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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